


Will the Real Napoleon Solo Please Show Up

by YumYumPM



Category: MASH (TV), The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Humor, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Previously published in The YumYum Affairs Collection under The Who's Napoleon Solo Affair<br/>(Suppose Section 2 No. 1 wasn't really born named Napoleon Solo.  How and where did he get that name?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will the Real Napoleon Solo Please Show Up

“… with the amount of drugs they pumped into him, it’s five times worse then taking capsule B.”

Three men sat around a round conference table. 

“Are you saying that his memories may not return?” the head of the U.N.C.L.E. New York office asked.

Dr. Stan Bennett, a fringe of grey hair circled his balding head, let out a heavy sigh. “No. I’m just saying that between that and his claiming he’s not Napoleon Solo…”

“And we are sure that he is?” Solo’s partner, Illya Kuryakin asked.

Dr. Bennett turned his attention to the young blond-haired man sitting next to him. “Fingerprints, dental, retinal patterns, medical records all match. Even his scars match up and there is no way that someone could duplicate that.”

“Yet you say he claims he’s not Napoleon Solo?” Mr. Alexander Waverly queried.

“Who does he claim to be if not Napoleon?” Illya wanted to know.

Bennett looked embarrassed. “That’s just it. He doesn’t know. When we told him his name was Napoleon Solo, he laughed. Said who would name their kid that.”

Waverly leaned back in his chair and let out an uncharacteristic sigh. “This is a fine kettle of fish. My head enforcement agent mentally incompetent just at a time when Thrush is stepping up their operations. It would be disastrous if anyone found out that Mr. Solo is…out of action. You, Mr. Kuryakin, will take over Mr. Solo’s duties. Effective immediately you are Number 1 Section 2.”

“Won’t people … wonder?” Illya questioned.

“Mr. Kuryakin, it is not the first time you’ve had to take over when Mr. Solo has been incapacitated. Dr. Bennett, I want a quarantine around Mr. Solo. Use some excuse – measles or something.” Waverly waved his pipe around. “You know what I mean. Mr. Kuryakin, why don’t you accompany Dr. Bennett down to medical? Perhaps you could jog your partner’s memory,” Waverly ordered.

The two men stood immediately, Dr. Bennett a little slower in getting up, nodded to their superior and left the room.

“A fine kettle of fish, indeed,” Illya remarked to the good doctor, receiving a nod of agreement, as they started down the hall.

***  
Across the country, two men were playing eighteen holes on a golf course in San Francisco. 

“Talking about strange happenings. Did I tell you about the agent that went missing, the New York hotshot.” George Pederson, the chief of U.N.C.L.E.’s local branch, leaned on his golf club and watched as his friend and personal physician set his ball on the tee.

Dr. John McIntyre, Chief of Surgery at San Francisco Memorial Hospital, was busy lining up his shot. “No, I don’t believe you did.” 

“Yeah one of Waverly’s favorite boys went missing. The old man was fit to be tied.”

Chattering stopped as McIntyre took his shot, his ball landing inside the green about two feet from the cup. The two men hefted their bags and followed their balls to the green. “I take it you don’t care for the guy.”

“Ah, Solo’s okay. Just thinks he’s God’s gift to women.” Pederson considered himself somewhat of a ladies’ man, and rued the times when Napoleon Solo was his competition for their attention.

McIntyre stopped short. “Did you say Solo?” Couldn’t be, he thought. 

“Yeah. Napoleon Solo.”

Oh, my God. There couldn’t be two men with the same name. “Ah … George … I just remembered an important appointment. You finish the round and I’ll call you next week.” McIntyre slapped his friend on the shoulder and headed for the clubhouse like a shot. 

Once he got back to the clubhouse, he went to the payphone. “Operator, give me a number in Crabapple, Maine. Benjamin Franklin Pierce.”

***

“Mr. Solo!”

On hearing the sharp cry, Illya and Dr. Bennett lengthened their stride, arriving just in time to see a bare-assed Napoleon slide between the sheets of the hospital bed.

“Where are your pajamas?” the nurse demanded.

“Don’t like ‘em,” Napoleon Solo’s voice was sulky as he pulled the sheets up to his chin.

“I’ll get you another pair.”

“I won’t wear them,” Napoleon muttered under his breath.

“Well, well, Mr. Solo,” Dr. Bennett said with a try at joviality. “Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, you’re Dr. What’s-his-name. Bennett.”

“Very good, Mr. Solo. And what about this gentleman?” 

“How many times do I have ta tell ya? My name’s not Solo!” Napoleon was clearly agitated.

Illya was shocked. The voice was Napoleon’s, but not. It had more of a mid-western twang to it. He pulled Dr. Bennett to one side. “How much has he been told?”

“Not much more then his name. Unfortunately there wasn’t enough time to go further into it. Mr. Waverly called for our meeting and …” 

“Who the hell did you say you were?”

Illya’s attention turned back to the man lying on the hospital bed. “Illya Kuryakin. We work together?”

“Doing what?” There appeared to be a bit of skepticism in the question.

“Enforcement. You work for an international peace-keeping organization.”

Napoleon clearly looked as if he didn’t believe him; his words bore that suspicion out. “Exactly what does that entail?”

Illya shrugged. “We go where we are needed and do whatever we are told to do … by our chief.”

Napoleon appeared to mull that over. “We kill people?”

How and why he jumped to that conclusion Illya could not guess. “When necessary.”

Napoleon looked away, obviously distressed.

“Perhaps it would be best if you showed Mr. Solo around,” Dr. Bennett suggested, breaking in on what was turning into a difficult situation.

“Should he be out of bed?” Illya asked, more than a little irritated at the intrusion.

“Other then his missing memory, there is nothing wrong with him. In fact it might do him some good. Familiar places and all that.” 

Napoleon bristled. “Hey, yoo-hoo. I’m lying here ya know.” 

“Get dressed,” Illya ordered brusquely, surprised when his partner scampered out of the bed and searched for some clothing. With Napoleon currently out, more or less, Illya had to take over his responsibilities. That wouldn’t leave a whole lot of time to try and help his American partner ‘find himself.’ 

***

Illya withdrew the key as he entered Napoleon’s apartment. Putting the key in his pocket he watched Napoleon’s head as it hesitantly peeked around the door frame. 

“You sure I live here?” Napoleon asked doubtfully. His body followed at Illya’s nod of confirmation. Their drive to Napoleon’s apartment had involved Illya desperately trying to convince Napoleon that they worked together, trying to explain about Thrush and that there was more to their job then killing people. He wasn’t sure he had succeeded.

“It’s huge.” He moved directly to the curtained window and pulled back the panels. His mouth dropped open as he gaped at the skyline view. “Wow. How rich am I?”

Illya looked around the apartment, seeing it in a new light. It was huge. It was decorated in typical Napoleon style, like the man himself, in understated elegance, though looking at the man now you wouldn’t know it. Napoleon’s suit bore testament to his hasty attempt to dress. His dark hair hung limply over his forehead. If Dr. Bennett had not assured Illya that this was indeed Napoleon, he would seriously have doubts.

Illya stood back as Napoleon wandered around his apartment, hoping that something would spark a sign of recognition, watching Napoleon as he moved around the room turning over what should be normally familiar objects and checking their undersides. The room was as familiar to Illya as was his own; they spent many hours planning strategy here. “Anything look familiar?”

A shake of the head was all he received as he followed Napoleon throughout the apartment, the stop at the kitchen, where Napoleon threw open cabinets and nodded his approval at the contents, down the hallway, peeking into the bath and into the master bedroom. Illya paused at the threshold, hesitating before entering. Throughout their years together, Illya had kept to the living room, kitchen, and when necessary the bath. He wasn’t sure what he expected, perhaps a round bed or silk sheets. The bedroom was simple, a double bed with a simple dark green coverlet, a dresser with a mirror over it and a comfortable chair for reading.

Napoleon was going through the dresser draws, searching for something. He flung open the closet door and began rifling through his suits. Illya watched as Napoleon pulled suits and tossed them carelessly to the floor. 

“Is there a problem?”

“Where’s my clothes?”

Illya looked at the floor and the clothing scattered about. “What do you mean?”

“My clothes. Jeans. T-shirts.”

Illya’s jaw almost dropped, but he managed to control his facial expression. It was becoming evident that this man who looked so much like his partner had very different tastes. “Is that your normal wear?’

Napoleon sank down on the bed and Illya could see his mind working. It seemed to hit him all over again. “I … I don’t know. It’s like I’m me, but I not sure who me is.”

He looked so lost, but Illya had no idea what to say to him.

“What is he … me … I … like?”

Without thinking, Illya launched into, “Napoleon Solo is egotistical, vain, shallow, a womanizer …” Then he noticed the horrified expression on Napoleon’s face and regretted his flippancy. By then Napoleon was curled up on the bed, his eyes scrunched closed, his hands covering his ears. He reached over, pulling Napoleon’s hands away. “No … no … I didn’t mean that.”

“You did. You did. Oh my god, what sort of man am I?”

Illya had never seen Napoleon so distressed and over something so trivial. Even more shocking, Napoleon’s bottom lip appeared to be quivering. Just another indication that this was not the same man he’d worked with for four years.

“I was only joking,” Illya said firmly. Apparently Napoleon didn’t believe him. Illya pressed his lips together, holding back the heavy sigh that kept wanting to escape. Now all he wanted was to go home to his own apartment and piece together in his mind everything that had brought them to this moment. To figure out how the partner he knew, or more to the point thought he knew, could disappear, for that was what it seemed to him. He settled for rubbing his forehead instead. “Look I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Napoleon’s reflexes were still good. Illya had no sooner turned to leave when he found Napoleon’s hand gripping his arm, holding him back.

“You’re not leaving me?” There was a faint sound of trepidation in Napoleon’s voice. The brown eyes had never been so open in his entreaty.

“I shall be back in the morning.” Illya tried for a smile of reassurance. He wasn’t used to having to reassure his partner. Bolster, comfort, support, yes. But reassure?

Napoleon uttered a small, “Oh.” Then his innate courtesy took over and he escorted Illya to the door. Taking a last look over his shoulder, Illya saw an apprehensive man.

***

Early the next morning Illya stood in front of the door to Napoleon’s apartment. He was not happy. Waverly had contacted him, waking him from a sound sleep to ream him out for leaving the man on the other side of the door alone.

He rang the bell and waited. And waited. He rang again. And waited again. He pressed his ear to the door. Silence. He reached inside his jacket for his gun. Maybe Waverly was right and he should not have left Napoleon alone, but he truly hadn’t thought there was much to cause concern. Give him a couple of days and the Napoleon he knew would be right back, making his life miserable.

Using his key, Illya slipped into the entryway and paused to look around, alert for any sounds that would indicate trouble. There was nothing out of place that hadn’t been there the night before. The curtains were still pulled back, displaying its panoramic view of New York’s skyline.

Slipping his gun back into its holster, Illya started around the sofa, intent on disturbing the beast in its lair. A loud snore caught his attention. There sprawled upon the sofa, his unshaven face buried in a pillow, one bare leg hanging over the side was Napoleon in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. 

With a snort, Illya reached over and tapped one of Napoleon’s feet. He jumped back when Napoleon turned, his hand automatically going for where he’d normally have his gun. So like the old Solo that Illya was sure his memory had returned. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Illya held up his set of keys. “Napoleon?”

“Huh?” Napoleon sat up, brushed his hair off his face and frowned. “Don’t call me that.”

“And what should I call you?” Illya sat on the end of the sofa.

“Tom, Dick, Harry. Or even Bob. Anything but … that.”

Illya shook his head. Napoleon’s denial of his name was getting old hat. “Why are you sleeping here? Why not sleep in your bed?”

“I couldn’t. It belongs to ‘him’.”

“You are ‘him.’” Napoleon looked like he was about to argue the point. “Never mind. Why don’t you get dressed? We’ll be late for work.”

“There’s nothing to wear,” Napoleon grumbled under his breath as he levered himself off the couch.

Illya chuckled, and then turned his gaze around the room. He began straightening items, setting them in their original places. On the coffee table were an empty decanter and a half-filled glass. Lifting the glass, Illya caught a whiff of Napoleon’s favorite brandy. 

Returning the decanter back to its accustomed spot, Illya started toward the kitchen thinking that perhaps some coffee would not be remiss. He’d just gotten the coffee perking, when Napoleon surprised him by turning up in the doorway. Illya’s eyebrows slid up, even for Napoleon that was fast, yet there he stood, his hair dripping wet from his shower and wiping saving cream from his freshly shaved face. 

“What’s for breakfast?” Napoleon asked, tossing the towel over his bare shoulder. Except for the dungarees he’d managed to scrounge up from somewhere, his body, including his feet, was bare. “Who did you say you were again?”

Illya’s hopes sank. Evidently Napoleon was still ‘not home’.

Napoleon was searching cupboards, finding spices and a variety of other items, pulling out some, discarding others. Searching the refrigerator he pulled out cheese and eggs, sniffed them, then he shrugged. In another compartment he found onions, bell pepper, and garlic. A bowl and cutting board were next. Like a choreographed dance, he found a skillet and flipped it behind his back, catching it without missing before placing it on the stovetop. He lit the burner at the same time as he added a dash of oil. 

Tossing a wink at him, Napoleon placed an onion on the cutting board with one hand and grabbed a knife with another and began slicing and dicing like an expert. He pushed the onions aside and started on the bell pepper. One cut and a frown, the bell pepper ended up in the trash. Next the bowl. Two eggs cracked, one after the other, then two more. “A pinch of this, a dash of that. Wisk a bit. And presto.” He poured the mix into the pan, swirled it about and reached for a spatula at the same time.

Illya had long since sunk into a nearby chair. The next thing he knew a plate of very nicely done eggs sat in front of him. Silverware landed next to the plate and Napoleon slipped into the chair opposite him. With a touch of hesitation, Illya took a bite. He chewed and swallowed and a smile spread across his face. This was a side of his partner that Illya had never seen. “Where did you learn to cook?”

Eating as if there were no tomorrow, most of the food on Napoleon’s plate was already gone. He froze, the fork upside down in his mouth. Slowly he removed it and asked, “Don’t I cook?”

“You have a number of good qualities, but I wasn’t aware that cooking was one of them.”

“That’s a different tune from what you said last night.”

“You remember last night?”

“I may not know who I am, but I do remember that.”

“I really didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

Napoleon looked down at his almost empty plate. “You know, there’s something about you. I don’t think it would have hurt so much if I didn’t trust you.”

Illya didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or pleased by that declaration. Not knowing how to respond he looked at his watch instead. “Oh, look at the time. If we don’t hurry we’ll be late for work.”

Napoleon nodded and pushed away from the table. Illya was congratulating himself when he realized he’d been left alone in the kitchen with the dirty dishes. Shaking his head, Illya got up and took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves. He’d just finished the last of the dishes when Napoleon returned. 

The only thing Illya could do was stare. He started at the bottom, the deck shoes, up the dungaree trousers to the beige sports shirt to the dark hair that was hanging down over brown eyes that gave the impression of being anxious.

“It’s all right isn’t it?”

Illya opened his mouth, then shut it. This Napoleon seemed to need his approval. One side of his mouth quirked into a smile. “Yes, Napoleon, it’s quite all right.” 

The pleased look on Napoleon’s face made the remark worth it. He would just have to come up with a good reason for Napoleon not appearing in his usual resplendent attire.

***  
“Smile at the receptionist when we get inside,” was Illya’s suggestion, as he reached for the coat hook in the dressing area of Del Floria’s.

“Why?”

Illya glared at Napoleon. He was getting a little tired of Napoleon’s constant questioning everything he told him. “Because I said to.”

Napoleon gave him a fake smile.

“Don’t talk. And let her pin on your badge.” Illya turned the hook on the wall and pushed open the door. It was going to be hard enough explaining Napoleon’s casual attire. Thank God he’d been able to talk Napoleon into letting him apply some Brylcreem to his hair and comb it to its usual semblance of order. The ease with which Napoleon accepted him and was willing to follow his instructions amazed Illya. They’d also had a long talk on the way in and he’d managed to talk Napoleon into answering to his name, if only for the sake of convenience.

“I notice you didn’t smile,” Napoleon said grouchily as they walked down the hallway.

“It’s not expected of me.”

Illya ignored the look that Napoleon turned upon him. People were turning to look, shocked at not seeing Napoleon dressed at his best. Illya knew he would have to come up with some sort of excuse, but hadn’t thought of one yet.

“Sit there,” Illya ordered upon entering Napoleon’s office. He could get used to telling Napoleon what to do and being instantly obeyed.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Now that was a problem. Explaining Napoleon’s strange state of dress was simple by comparison. Without his memories, there was nothing he was capable of doing.

“Just … just sit there.”

Illya sat at the other desk and began going through the files, doing the work that was normally Napoleon’s. As he worked his mind wandered. The last time Napoleon lost his memory, Waverly had said that he’d remember how to conjugate in Swahili but he wouldn’t remember anything about U.N.C.L.E. What if his basic memory was there, just hiding below the surface?  
He was midway through the reports when he had an idea. There was only one way to find out.  
Closing the folder he was working on, Illya straightened the rest and placed them neatly to one side. 

“Come on.”

“Where we going?” Napoleon brightened considerably and stopped tossing wadded paper into a waste paper basket.

Normally Illya didn’t pay attention to the people they passed in the hall, but several were stopping and turning. He couldn’t blame them. Napoleon was striding beside him, his hands pushed inside the back pockets of his pants; even his gait was much different then normal. It was all Illya could do to resist making Napoleon withdraw his hands.

Illya led the way down steel lined walls, down the elevator several levels to the armory. In the far corner was a section where agents could try out their weapons and practice their skills. 

Sid Crocker, ex-military, dropped what he was doing. “Well, well. Waverly’s two hot shots. What brings you here?”

“I thought a little target practice might be in order,” Illya said as he pulled his gun. Napoleon backed away. 

“Good deal.” Sid nodded his agreement. If he noted Napoleon’s reluctance he said nothing. “I’ll go set up the targets.”

Illya waited until everything was in readiness. Taking aim at the target at the other end of the room, Illya let off six shoots in fast succession. He smiled in satisfaction at the grouping on the target. Pulling the clip from the handle, Illya replaced it with a fresh one and handed it over to Napoleon.

Napoleon stared at it as if it were a snake. “What ‘cha want me to do with that?”

“I’m merely testing a hypothesis.”

One dark eyebrow quirked up on Napoleon’s face.

“You claim not to know who ‘you’ are. But there are some things that you seem to retain.”

“Like cooking? And driving?” 

“Yes.” Illya pushed the gun into Napoleon’s hand. “You’ve done this before; I wish to see if you’ve retained knowledge of how to use this.” 

Napoleon licked his lip and took the gun, hefting it doubtfully. He looked at the other end of the room where a new target had been set up. He raised the arm holding the gun and with one eye closed he squinted through the other eye, sighting the target as he thought it should be done.

“No. No.” Illya pulled down the arm holding the gun. “Just shoot.”

Napoleon looked at him puzzled, then casually raised his arm, and squeezed off a series shots in quick succession. “You mean like this?”

Illya looked at the target. Only one shot had managed to hit the target. Well so much for that theory, Illya thought. 

Sid retrieved the target and shook his head. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’d never believe it. Napoleon, you’ve never hit the center spot on.” He held up the target for Illya to see. The phone rang, and he handed the sheet over as he went to answer it. Every shot had found its mark, so close together it looked as if one shot had been fired.

Illya looked up to see a smug look on Napoleon’s face, so like the Napoleon of old. 

“Hey, Kuryakin.” Sid set the receiver down. “The old man wants to see ya asap.”

Illya nodded. He took back his gun from Napoleon. “Come on, let’s see what Mr. Waverly wants.”

“Uhuh, Kuryakin. Just you.”

Illya was in a quandary. He wasn’t sure Napoleon would remember his way back to his office and he couldn’t very well ask Sid to escort him. 

“’allo. What do we have here? Napoleon, you goin’ to a masquerade party or somethin’?”

Napoleon had moved a half-step behind Illya. Illya swore to himself. Things were getting more complicated. Napoleon didn’t know Mark Slate from Adam. Thankfully he was saved from explaining to the British agent.

“Hey, Slate,” Sid called out. “April rang up. Said you were in a hurry for that special equipment.” 

Illya cocked his head to one side, indicating to Napoleon that they should make their escape, but before they could Sid called after them, “Hey, kid. Waverly wants the Crocker File tout de suite.”

Illya nodded. That meant he’d have to go back to the office. He could drop Napoleon off without going out of his way. He wouldn’t put it pass Waverly to have thought that out.

“Oh and another thing. Cut the hair!”

Illya paused in the doorway, his spine stiffening. He continued down the hall, not wanting to look at Napoleon because he knew that he’d see a smirk. 

“I don’t think your hair’s too long.”

A sharp glance to one side and Illya was surprised to see that Napoleon was serious. Another reminder that this was not the Napoleon he thought he knew. 

***

 

On the way back from the armory, the halls had been crowded with people. Many of them greeted Napoleon in passing. “Just nod and smile,” Illya had murmured as they made their way down the hall. 

They finally had made it to Napoleon’s office and Illya couldn’t help but notice the puzzled expression on his partner’s face. 

“They like him?”

“Yes, of course. You are very popular. Stay here until I return,” Illya admonished him. He moved to the filing cabinet to pull out the file Waverly requested and decided to pull more. Setting them on Napoleon’s desk he ordered. “Study these while I’m gone.”

Illya paused outside Waverly’s domain and ran one hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, took a deep breath before going through the door as it swished open. Napoleon had seemed dubious when he left, not that Illya could not blame him. Especially after Illya’s flippant character assassination. 

“Here is the report you wanted,” Illya held out the report as he approached the familiar round table.

Waverly took it and set it down in front of him. He leaned back in his chair, his pipe at the ready. “Sit down, Mr. Kuryakin. I’d like you to meet someone who says he has information on our Mr. Solo.”

As Illya sank into his chair he became aware of another man, standing by the only window in the whole U.N.C.L.E. complex. Dark hair, a little on the long side, streaked with gray framed a thin face. Glasses perched on his nose gave a scholarly impression. Illya guessed his age as in his fifties.

The man came over, his hand held out. “Hi, name’s Dr. Pierce. Benjamin Franklin, but you can call me Hawkeye.”

Illya took the proffered hand, his eyes sifted toward Waverly as he wondered about the man’s name and just what sort of information he could have.

“Since this concerns your partner, I decided to wait until you got here,” Waverly said as he patted his favorite mixture into the bowl of his pipe. “Dr. Pierce, may I ask how you came by the knowledge that our Mr. Solo … er … isn’t … all here?”

Illya straightened, his eyebrows rising.

Dr. Piece slowly sat down. He let out a heavy sigh. “You’re right of course; he’s not. The problem is where to begin.” Silence ensued. “As to how I found out, well I got a call from Trapper, an old friend of mine in San Francisco.”

Illya and Mr. Waverly exchanged looks. What was up with the strange names? Hawkeye. Trapper. Not to mention that they knew about this in San Francisco?

Dr. Pierce rubbed his hand across his chin. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” He settled more comfortably in his chair. “It all starts in Korea.”

A lightbulb went off in Illya’s head. He knew that Napoleon had served in Korea under Colonel Morgan. 

Waverly held up his hand and flicked a switch on the panel at his side. “Miss … er … Williams. I do not wish to be disturbed until further notice.” He waved for Dr. Piece to continue.

Pierce leaned forward, his glasses slid down his nose. “It all started …”

 

Benjamin Franklin Pierce, Hawkeye to his friends, reclined in a lounge chair, a martini glass of hooch in his hand. The door to his home away from home opened and “Trapper” John McIntyre popped his head in, letting in the sound of tinny music playing over loudspeakers . 

“Wanna go to the mess hall?”

“Sure. Nothing else to do.” 

Setting down his glass, Pierce picked up a rumbled pair of khakis and an equally rumpled shirt, drawing them over his military issued boxers and t-shirt. He followed his bunkmate out of their tent, nicknamed The Swamp, into the dreary compound that made up the 4077 M.A.S.H. Unit. 

They were halfway to the mess hall tent when a short guy with round glasses stopped suddenly, tilted his head to one side, and called out, “In coming.”

From previous experience, even though there was no sound, the men knew that they would soon be hearing choppers bringing in a load of wounded. Soon the announcement broke into the music and everyone was running toward the landing area as several helicopters appeared on the horizon. It looked like disorganized chaos. 

Hawkeye and Trapper, along with a group of nurses that included the head nurse ‘Hot Lips’ Houlihan, and the unit’s Chaplain Father Mulcahy had already started triage. Major Frank Burns was standing around calling out orders that no one was obeying. Corporal Klinger, wearing an afternoon tea dress, was everywhere, doing what needed to be done.

The camp commander, Lt. Colonel Henry Blake, burst through the door of his tent shouting, “Radar!”

Walter ‘Radar’ O’Reilly was already at his elbow, a fact that always seemed to startle Blake. “What have we got?”

“Canadians, sir.”

“Shit.” Blake cupped his hands around his mouth. “Okay, folks, let’s get ‘em prepped.”

***

Hawkeye was just closing the patient he’d been working on when Trapper called out. “Hey, Hawk. Can you come here for a moment?”

“Be with you in a sec.” Hawkeye pulled his final stitch tight and handed the needle to his assistant, he murmured, “Would you mind closing for me?”

“Not at all, Doctor.”

Stripping off his bloody gloves and tossing them into a wastebasket, Hawkeye moved around to the other side of Trapper. “What ‘cha got?” Trapper pulled back the sheet just enough that no one else could see and Hawkeye grimaced. The guy underneath was a mess. Trapper moved the body so that Hawkeye could see the back side.

Young, his injuries were not consistent with the injuries of the others. Hawkeye’s lips tightened. The extent of the injuries was obvious, they were sexual in nature. Someone had taken the kid, and savagely. There was no way that any of the injuries could be self-infected. Trapper gently laid the boy flat and the two men exchanged looks.

“Radar!” Hawkeye called out. The young man was miraculously as his side before he’d finished. “What’s the story on this guy?”

Radar flipped through the sheets on his clipboard. He flipped through them a second time. Then he pulled down the sheet to check for a dog tag. There was none.

“That’s strange. I’ll ask around.”

“Do it quietly,” Trapper suggested in a low voice, then he pulled Hawkeye aside. “I’ll look after him, but you’ll have to keep Frank away.”

Hawkeye nodded his agreement. Frank Burns was a pompous narrow-minded ass. One whiff of what had happened to the kid and all sort of trouble would ensue. “What about Henry?”

“I don’t know. Henry’s an okay sort of joe, but he might feel obligated to report it. Until we hear the kid’s side of it, I say we keep this under wraps.”

Hawkeye nodded his agreement. 

***

“The only problem was when the kid finally came to he didn’t know who he was,” Dr. Pierce finished up. “Nobody from the Canadian group would admit knowing him. And quite frankly, after seeing what had been done to him, we didn’t want to send him back there anyway.”

“What did you do?” Illya asked.

“We called in an expert. A friend. Dr. Sidney Freedman.”

***

Four men sat around a small table in The Swamp, three of whom had already imbibed quite a bit. “So, Sidney, what’s the verdict?” asked Trapper, a big cigar hanging from his mouth.

“Well, he’s extremely bright, hasn’t a clue as to who he is, and …” Sidney played a card. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s homosexual. I think the common vernacular is ‘gay.’” 

Corporal Klinger, dressed in a nurse’s uniform, sat in a vacant chair. “Sorry I’m late, guys. Did I hear someone say gay?”

“We’re not talking about you,” Hawkeye assured him. Though Klinger dressed in woman’s clothing it was all a ploy to get out of the army and back home. Everyone knew it. 

“My guess is someone from the Canadian unit found out and beat the crap out of him,” Sidney continued.

“They damn well did more then beat the crap out of him.” Trapper checked his cards, then played one. “I spent over two hours repairing the damage.”

“You’re not talking about the Canadian kid?” Klinger wanted to know. “He doesn’t look gay.”

“How would you know?” Radar asked. He picked up a card, threw another down and spread out his cards. “Gin.”

Slam.

Nobody looked up as Frank Burns stormed in.

“What happened, Frank? Hotlips call off your date?” Trapper took his cigar out of his mouth long enough to ask without even looking to see who had entered.

“None of your beeswax,” Frank said snidely.

“Ouuu,” Hawkeye and Trapper chorused to each other while Radar giggled. 

“I’ll be glad to see the last of those Canadians,” Burns muttered as he sat on his bunk. “Especially that Frenchy … Napoleon Solo.” Burns sneered. “What kind of name is that?”

Hawkeye, Trapper and Radar all exchanged knowing glances. 

 

“We need to come up with a name for him.” Hawkeye had said as they’d prepped the kid for surgery.

“What about John Doe?” Radar had suggested.

Lt. Dish, while assisting Trapper, had taken one look at the dark curl of hair on the kid’s forehead and cooed. “How cute. Just like Napoleon’s.” 

“That doesn’t belong here. Take it to the mess hall.” Margaret ‘Hot Lips’ Houlihan was dressing down an unsuspecting corpsman who had entered the operating tent with a box marked Solo cups, thereby giving birth to the young Canadian’s new name. After all, like Trapper had said at the time. “We can’t just call him ‘hey you’.”

Hawkeye had agreed. “Or John Doe.”

 

“Major Frank Burns. Major Frank Burns. Please report to the infirmary,” sounded over the loudspeaker outside their hut.

Burns threw down the book he was reading. “Why can’t these sick people just leave me alone?”

“How did Frank ever get to be an MD?” Sidney asked, cocking his head toward the receding body. 

“We’ve been asking ourselves that question for years,” Trapper admitted, pausing as he took another gulp of hooch.

“Is it true?” Hawkeye turned to Radar, who nodded confirmation. 

“The Canadian unit is being shipped back tomorrow.”

“We can’t let him go back. There has got to be something we can do,” Hawkeye said adamantly.

“What did you have in mind?” Sidney asked.

“What if …,” Trapper leaned over conspiratorially. “What if we gave him a new identity?”

“Can we do that?” Radar wanted to know. Then a wary looked passed over his face as the four men around the table stared calculatingly at him. Somehow he knew exactly what they had in mind. “Nah. I couldn’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” Trapper insisted. “He didn’t have any identification. He doesn’t know who he is. We could tell him anything and he’d probably believe it.”

***

Hawkeye paused in his narrative to study to two men. The older man’s expression was thoughtful. The younger’s was inscrutable. 

“May I ask why you felt it necessary to tell us this?” Waverly asked.

It was rather hard to explain the guilt he’d felt all those years. But he was going to have to try. “Between Trapper and myself, with the help of several of the nurses, we manage to convince your Mr. Solo that he was quite the lady’s man. It wasn’t very difficult. In effect we took his old personality away and supplanted it with another. But at the time we felt it would be for the best.

“Between us we came up with a complete background. We enlisted Corporal O’Reilly, Radar, to dissimulate the information where it would do the most good. If anyone could do it, Radar could. It was Henry Blake’s idea to ship him out to Colonel Morgan. Colonel Morgan was an old friend of Henry’s. If he could pass muster with Morgan he could manage to live a normal life.” 

Sidney had warned them of the consequences of their action, but in their stupid exuberance they’d chosen to ignore him. 

“In a way we feel responsible. Someone needed to know the background, because he sure as hell doesn’t,” Dr. Pierce said simply. 

“Thank you, Dr. Pierce. We’ll take it from here,” Waverly said dismissively. He watched pensively as the man turned back in a final apology before leaving the room. 

“Well, what do you think of that?” Waverly asked his acting Senior Agent.

“Poppy cock,” was Illya’s firm reply.

“My thoughts exactly,” Waverly agreed. He took a couple of puffs on his pipe. “And yet…”  
He leaned back in his chair deep in thought. “Perhaps you had best check on your partner.”

Illya stood up and gave his superior a nod before leaving to check on Napoleon. He found that he couldn’t believe Dr. Pierce’s pronouncement. After all, none of it matched up with the man he knew. 

***

Napoleon sat at the desk that he’d been told was his, going through the folders like he’d been told. It wasn’t hard memorizing names and matching them with faces, but that’s all they were to him. None of them held any memories.

He’d spent a lot of time on Illya’s folder, such as it was. It held a lot of facts and figures, but nothing about the man. In spite of it all, the more he saw of this man the more he felt a connection. He just wasn’t sure what sort.

Finished with the folders, Napoleon looked up hoping to see Illya. He stomach rumbled and he glanced at his watch, noting how much time had slipped by. The gray walls had long since closed in on him, leaving him feeling claustrophobic. He had to get out. In the end it wasn’t difficult. He followed a couple of passing men into an elevator, getting off when they did. From there he spied a young woman carrying a purse, taking that as a sign that she was leaving the building. That woman met another and they both headed for the exit. He watched from a distance as they chatted with the receptionist, turned in their badges, then walked over to the wall, waited while the receptionist triggered the door.

Planting a smile on his face, Napoleon approached the receptionist; a different one from this morning, handed over his badge and duplicated the actions he’d just witnessed. Soon he was out, into the changing room that led to the cleaners. With a friendly nod to the man behind the press, he hastily moved up the stairs to the street level above. The problem was where to go from here? They’d arrived in a car that Illya had driven and Napoleon wasn’t certain of finding his way back. 

He was getting more used to being called Napoleon, though he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. In the end he just followed his feet. After a while he found himself surrounded on all sides by people, none of whom paid him the slightest attention. 

Keeping his pace even with those around him, Napoleon eventually came to a stairway that led down to the subway. Surprisingly enough, he knew what a subway was. Napoleon debated going down, but was afraid of losing his way. As it stood, if he turned around now he could find his way back. If he entered the subway system he was not so sure he could.

The neighborhood gave way to shops. Napoleon found one that sold men’s clothing and eagerly entered. He’d been appalled at finding his casual wear limited. He gravitated toward the shirts section; button down, sporty, t-shirts, surprised by the wide range of styles and patterns. He moved over to the jeans, again the assortment taking his breath away. Whatever happened to plain Levis?

Then there was the size problem. Napoleon realized he had no idea what size his waistline or what the length of his legs was. He wasn’t in the mood to pull out different sizes and try them on; he just wanted to grab something. It brought it all home that he had no idea who or what he was.

He left the shop, his thoughts about how he felt about himself and what he’d been told in total conflict. Not that he disbelieved Illya. The bar across the street caught his eye and a sudden need for a drink hit him. 

Standing in the doorway letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, he found the place small, but not dingy. The place was not terribly crowded and there was a masculine feel to it. Napoleon made his way to the bar, wondering if he’d been here before. For all he knew this could be a favorite stop of his.

“What’s your pleasure?”

“Scotch,” came out of his mouth before he even thought about it as he sat down on a stool.

When the drink finally came, Napoleon picked it up and took a tentative sip. 

“Goo’day, Jake. My usual.”

Napoleon blinked. The accent was unusual but he was sure he should recognize it. Instead he pretended interest in a menu that was stuck between the salt and pepper shakers.

“The lunches here are first rate.”

It took a moment before Napoleon realized he was being addressed. He turned his head. The first things he noticed were grey eyes appraising him underneath a thatch of reddish brown hair and a friendly smile. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before?” 

Those piercing eyes turned away as his drink was set before him and Napoleon took the chance to study the rest of him. A plaid shirt and jeans covered a well built body and something unusual stirred inside of Napoleon. At least he thought it was unusual.

“Tell ya what, I’m havin’ something to eat. What say we share a table?” 

Napoleon didn’t think twice, he followed him over to a booth against one wall. 

“You come here often?” Napoleon asked, then blushed as he realized how much like a pick-up line it sounded. His new acquaintance laughed and handed him a menu. Their talk was free and easy and Napoleon found himself relaxing. He didn’t realize how close the other man had gotten until he found an arm stretched out across the bench behind him and a hand on his thigh. He licked his lips nervously as the man he’d just met leaned in and whispered into his ear, “Let’s take this someplace more private.” Napoleon didn’t question it when the other man stood up, took him by the hand and led him into a hallway. 

Finding himself pressed against the wall, his mouth pressed against another’s for a searing kiss should have alarmed him, but it didn’t. His eyes shut tightly as hands groped his body, making him tingle all over. He didn’t know what to do when the zipper on his pants was lowered and his cock was retrieved from its haven. A firm hand was milking him, he gasped when a warm mouth encased his throbbing organ. He looked down to find his companion on his knees, sucking the life and cum right out of him. 

When he finally let loose, Napoleon sagged against the wall. His deflated length was placed back in its proper place. A peck on the lips along with a “Thanks, I really needed that. Perhaps we can do it again sometime,” whispered into his ear and suddenly he was alone. Napoleon leaned on the wall trying to get his composure back. After a while he left the hall, paying for his meal at the bar, the barman smiling knowingly at him as he took Napoleon’s money.

Standing outside the bar, Napoleon brushed his hair back with a nervous hand. He trembled inside as it hit him that he’d just been kissed and sucked off by a man. In broad daylight. Worse, he’d enjoyed it. Disoriented it, he looked around trying to decide which way he should go to get back to U.N.C.L.E. It was the only consistent point in his life at the moment and he needed stability right now more than ever.

Ever since he’d awakened, he’d had trouble knowing just who he was. They told him he was some hot shot agent, but he had trouble believing that. When Illya had told him he was egotistical, vain, shallow, a womanizer … he’d been dismayed. Now he was even more troubled by his own behavior. 

Right now he wanted to get away, to go home, but he was so disoriented that he didn’t know the way. It was with relief that he heard his name called. Perhaps Illya had come looking for him. He hadn’t. Napoleon recognized the face from the files he studied. Mark Slate, an Englishman.

Slate was putting away a silver pen. “Come along, Napoleon. Illya will have my head if I don’t get you back.

***

“What were you thinking?” Illya blasted into Napoleon. “Do you have any idea of the kind of trouble you could have gotten into?”

Slate pulled Illya aside, glancing backwards at Napoleon as he did so. “Found him outside that new pub not too far from here. You know the one.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down suggestively. “Do you think he knew …?”

Dismissing Mark with a nod of his head, Illya let out a mental sigh. Napoleon’s head hung low, like a naughty little boy. He fully expected to see Napoleon wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve. Never, ever would the Napoleon Solo he knew ever do that. Suddenly Napoleon raised his  
head, the brown eyes defiant and Illya could see a spark of the old Napoleon.

“I was hungry.” 

“There is a commissary in the building.”

“I needed to get away."

Illya stopped. Arguing wasn’t going to change anything. He softened his tone. “You can’t be trusted out on your own.”

Not knowing what to think about Dr. Pierce’s revelation, Illya had returned to the office to find Napoleon gone. A quick search of the bathrooms and commissary produced no results. It was only after checking with the receptionist that he learned of Napoleon’s departure. Not that he could blame her, if they were to keep Napoleon’s condition a secret they couldn’t very well tell the receptionist not to let him out.

He couldn’t very well call out a search party for Napoleon without explaining why. So after consulting with Waverly and getting his approval, Illya had brought Mark Slate and his partner April Dancer into the plan, leaving out the details that Dr. Pierce had revealed. Illya hadn’t wanted to believe it, but was it possible that Napoleon all unknowingly had reverted to his true inclinations. 

How difficult it was dealing with a friend who now, through no fault of his own, was nothing more than a stranger. Illya decided while out searching for his friend that informing him of Dr. Pierce’s revelation would be counter productive. He hoped that soon his fellow agent would regain his memories, whether they would be the memories of the original or the ones of the man that the M.A.S.H. unit had created remained to be seen. 

Illya knelt down in front of his partner. “Look, Napoleon, this is what you have to do.”  
***

Death would have been welcomed. Lying curled up on the rocky floor, his bare body battered, Illya waited for them to come back, to inflict more pain. He’d given up on a rescue long ago.

Thinking had become difficult and he didn’t really want to think. If he did he’d only end up going over the events that led to this. If his calculations were right it was almost six months since Napoleon had lost his sense of self and for the first time Illya envied him. Anger welled up in him, anger at his partner, anger at the situation he found himself in.

He’d never let on to Napoleon the things Dr. Pierce had said about his past, hoping that Napoleon would remember on his own. Weeks went by and he’d watched Napoleon carefully for signs that Napoleon was what Pierce had said. Gay. Or had he merely been a victim, just as Illya now was.

Napoleon was so different from the Napoleon of old. He was shy for one thing, never making advances toward male or females. The worst that could be said about Napoleon was that he was docile. He did everything asked of him, but he didn’t seem to have the will to lead. Which was why Illya was down in South America with only local agents for backup. He’d known it would be dangerous. Mr. Waverly had made it perfectly clear when he’d sent him out after Emory Partridge.

Emory Partridge had always come across as a gentleman of sorts on the one occasion that Illya had been involved with him. The men he’d chosen to employ were without a doubt not.

The sounds of shoots and screams echoed throughout the cell. Nothing new. The sound of a key turning in the heavy wooden door caused Illya close his eyes tightly as his body stiffened. 

“Napoleon, here!” The voice sounded so like that of Mark Slate that Illya thought he was hallucinating. 

“Illya?” 

Illya opened his eyes, not believing he heard correctly. Someone was lightly brushing the dank hair from his forehead. Leaning over him, brown eyes questioning, was Napoleon Solo. Not the one he’d left at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters but the original. At least, his original. “Napoleon?”

“Get April and the rest and let’s finish this up,” Napoleon ordered over his shoulder. His hand caressed Illya’s bare shoulder as he inspected Illya’s injuries. The banter was back in his voice as he said, “The lengths you go through to get me back.” 

Illya’s relief was short-lived. He tensed up and began to panic when Napoleon pushed himself off the floor next to him and began to strip. Dreading what would happen next, Illya shut his eye tightly and screamed mentally, No…no.

Much to his surprise, he felt cloth moving up his legs, socks covering his bare feet and a shirt draped over him. Opening his eyes, he watched Napoleon pull up his pants, tuck in his hanging penis before zipping his trousers closed. 

“Sorry about the boxers,” Napoleon said apologetically. “But I didn’t think you’d want to leave this place bare-assed.” He slipped his bare feet into his shoes and pulled his holster on over his t-shirt before shrugging into his jacket. 

Illya was shocked and astonished as well as a little embarrassed as he watched Napoleon crouch down next to him, helping him to sit up and put on the white button-down shirt, buttoning the buttons for him.

“Think you can walk?” Napoleon asked, to which Illya nodded. Napoleon helped him up and supported him as they walked to the cell door. Illya took one last look back at the bloodstained rock flooring before passing out.

***

Napoleon stood outside Illya’s door, hearing strains of depressing music coming from inside. He knocked softly and waited for an answer. He pressed his head against the door before he knocked again, the only response was the volume raised louder.

After Illya had left on this last mission, Mr. Waverly had called Napoleon into his office to talk about Dr. Pierce's visit. Napoleon had been annoyed when Waverly expressed surprise that Illya had not told him of Dr. Pierce’s meeting with them and the information gained. At first he didn’t want to believe it … then he realized that it explained a lot about himself that he’d been recently feeling. It was bad enough that he didn’t remember his life as Napoleon Solo, but to find out that that life was a sham! He couldn’t find it in him to be angry at Illya, but he was disappointed over the fact that Illya knew about this and had kept it from him or, better yet, how had Illya taken the news? Illya, his supposed partner, whom he had come to trust in spite of not knowing him. Even worse, what if Illya was homophobic? 

When Illya had gone missing and no one seemed willing or able to do anything, it was like a light bulb had turned on inside Napoleon's head. Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E.’s top agent, returned with a vengeance. He’d managed to do what others had not. Find his partner, pull together a rescue team, and get him out.

No one regretted it more than he that he’d been unable to get there in time to rescue the others. Not soon enough for Agent Enrico Perez, who had died shortly after capture, nor for Agent Consuela Juarez who was brutally raped to death by the amoral thugs that Partridge had employed. Nor for Illya, who after Consuela’s death had been used and abused. 

Illya had been out of the hospital and home for three days now. With no word, Napoleon began to fear the worst. Not wanting to use U.N.C.L.E. equipment to break into Illya’s apartment, Napoleon used skills long forgotten to open the door and slipped silently inside.

The view before him distressed him. Illya was huddled on his sofa. His knees drawn up to his chest and his head buried between them. Napoleon moved quietly toward the stereo and lowered the sound. That brought Illya’s head up and around toward him and Napoleon saw the bloodshot eyes glaring at him.

“Don’t say it,” Illya’s voice was bitter.

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Swallowing hard, Napoleon thought of all the things he’d practice to say and nothing seemed right. ‘I know what you’re going through’ or ‘I’ll help you through this’ didn’t seem to cut it. Certainly ‘It’s not as bad as you think’ or ‘How are you feeling? would be the wrong thing to say.

“Go…away.” The command was muffled, yet forceful.

Part of him wanted to accede to Illya’s request, but he found he couldn’t. After all Illya had looked after him so it only seemed fair to return the favor. Carefully thinking through each word as he said it, Napoleon spoke from his heart. “The first time it happened to me …” He paused. He couldn’t look at Illya as he continued. “I was in high school.” He swallowed hard and a sad smile crossed his lips. He didn’t see Illya’s expression change to one of surprise. “I knew I was … different. A couple …” his voice caught. “of jocks cornered me in the john.” The cruel words and things he’d been forced to do and had worked so hard to forget seemed to surround him. “This is a bad idea,” Napoleon murmured more to himself then to Illya. This was harder then he’d anticipated and he turned to leave. Illya’s hand caught his wrist, stopping him.

“You remember?” 

The question softly spoken caught him up short. At least Illya was talking to him. Napoleon sat on the back of the sofa, his head down as Illya held on to him, keeping him from leaving. “Some things. Not all. It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope. Images, feelings all colliding.” Napoleon blinked, choking on the words. “The worse part was knowing that what they said was true. I was what they said I was. I tried to forget, and evidently succeeded beyond my wildest expectations.”

“How did you … deal … with it?”

“If you’ll remember correctly, I didn’t,” Napoleon said lightly. “Still haven’t,” he murmured. Napoleon turned introspective. He wondered what his life would have been like if not for Korea. “The truth is I’m as queer as a three dollar bill.” He gathered the nerve to look at Illya. “Can you live with being partnered with a fag?” 

“I think I can manage,” Illya responded dryly.

Napoleon smiled down at Illya fondly. “Guess I need to get home. You going to be okay?”

Illya was up in an instant. “Do you have to?”

The anxiety in Illya’s voice forced Napoleon to take a really close look at him. “When was the last time you ate or for that matter slept?”

“I don’t remember,” Illya admitted reluctantly. “When I got out of medical.”

Napoleon shook his head and slipped off his jacket, then began rolling up his sleeves. “Okay, let’s fix you something to eat.” He sniffed the air as he passed Illya on the way to the kitchen. “And a bath wouldn’t hurt you any.” 

Illya lifted his arm and took a whiff. His nose scrunched at the odor.

Napoleon, busy checking the cupboards, demanded, “Bath now!”

Illya scowled. Trust Napoleon to remember how to boss him around.

A minute later Napoleon slapped the last cupboard closed. Didn’t the man keep even the most basic of food around? He listened for the sound of water and heard nothing.

He found Illya curled up on the bathroom floor. “What are you doing?”

“Tired,” Illya murmured sleepily.

“Tired? Bath first. Sleep later.”

Illya looked up through matted hair and scowled. Napoleon held his breath until Illya nodded and reached for the hand offered. Bracing himself, Napoleon in one smooth movement pulled his partner up, surprised and somewhat shocked when Illya sagged against him tempting him. His body reacted traitorously to the touch, a grim reminder that he was indeed a lover of men, a fact that in spite of everything he’d been trying to convince himself wasn’t true.

Damn it. Napoleon thought as Illya snuggled closer. He knows perfectly well I’m gay. That I’m attracted to men and after what’s happened to him, there is no way he should be doing this. His and Illya’s relationship wasn’t like that. Never was and never could be. Sure he remembered times when there had been teasing on both their parts, but nothing ever came of it. He gripped Illya by his upper arms and pushed him away, not wanted Illya to know what kind of reaction he was having to being so close. In doing so he got his first really good look at him. 

Illya looked as worn out as Napoleon had ever remembered seen him. Then he remembered that it hadn’t been that long since Illya had been rescued. It had taken two days to get back to New York. Five days in medical, then the last three days at home and without any sleep from the looks of it. Illya needed sleep, but it’d be better if he was clean for it. 

“Maybe a shower will help,” Napoleon suggested. “A cold one,” he muttered under his breath. He turned Illya around, keeping him at arm’s length, because he knew if he didn’t he would have Illya wrapped in his arms. The fact that he wouldn’t mind holding Illya shocked him. There was no point in thinking about it now. Illya was getting riper by the moment.

Sitting Illya on the lid of the commode, Napoleon knelt in front of him and slapped his face lightly to get his attention.

“Illya! Wake up. You need to shower.”

“Right.” Illya’s blue eyes tried to focus on the tub. He stood up and promptly sat down again. A large yawn escaped him and he murmured, “Shower.”

Napoleon shook his head and pulled the t-shirt off over his partner’s blond head. He couldn’t help wincing at the multi-colored blotches that still graced the slender upper body. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he had seen Illya injured before, but something about this time was different. He turned away and started the water in the shower running. When the temperature was acceptable, he pulled back just as Illya pushed his pajama bottoms down to the floor. Napoleon’s gaze was unable to resist checking out the terrain as it followed the path of those pajamas. 

Napoleon gulped. “Well, I’ll … er … leave you to it.” He waved a hand toward the falling water as he backed away. Right then staying was not an option.

“Napoleon?” His name, tentatively spoken caused him to freeze and he made the mistake of looking back. Illya looked as he would fall over at any moment.

“I hate to ask,” Illya said apologetically. “but would you stay? I … I don’t think I can …” he may not have realized it but Illya paused a moment to lick his lips and Napoleon moaned inward at the seductiveness of it. “Do this without you.”

Napoleon narrowed his eyes and did his best to reject the thoughts that were running through his head. He could feel himself getting stiff. It didn’t make it any easier that it was getting hard to think straight either. Feelings he didn’t remember having were emerging, his distant past overlapping with his recent past. 

“What? Take a shower?” Napoleon asked. The look he received in return was pure Illya. Suddenly it hit him…Illya wasn’t doing this on purpose. It was a sign of the trust Illya had in him. Illya usually resented having to lean on anyone. Napoleon could only hope that his trust wasn’t misplaced, though the way his body was reacting he wouldn’t place any bets on it. 

Not wanting to give Illya the wrong idea, Napoleon then proceeded to do something he’d never done before. He thought of girls. Relief swept over him at the unpredictable results. Before he would have gotten harder, now it appeared the thought of his former activities had the opposite effect. 

“Right.” Napoleon loosened his tie. He could do this. He had taken care of Illya before, just as Illya had taken care of him. Or had he? Come to think of it, they had never been so badly off that they’d had to take depend on each other like this. On various occasions they’d been captured, drugged, and tortured, but never as bad as this. Illya had never been raped before. Just the thought of what Illya had gone through turned his stomach. Napoleon might not be certain of much, but he knew that nothing would really be the same after that. It hadn’t been for him, he thought with some facetiousness. 

There’s nothing sexual about this, Napoleon tried to convince himself as he stripped off his clothing, and helped Illya into the shower. Illya extended his arms, supporting himself against two of the bathroom walls while Napoleon reached for the shampoo and began massaging it into Illya’s scalp and a soft humming sound met Napoleon’s ear. He carded his fingers through the soft tresses as the water rinsed the shampoo from Illya’s hair. Illya’s head lolled back to lie on Napoleon’s shoulder, as he leaned back against him, his eyes closed in apparent bliss. It was all he could do to keep from leaning in and sniffing the newly clean freshness.

The next step was figuring out how to support Illya while soaping up a sponge. Using one hand to hold him in place, he used the other to, in a business-like manner, gently run the sponge down Illya’s back. He reached around and ran the sponge over Illya’s chest, the strokes a lot gentler than they needed to be to do the job. Eventually he backed away, keeping his hands supporting Illya’s shoulder blades and watched as the water caused the soap to cascade down Illya’s back and into the crease of his butt cheeks, a sight he found most enticing. In spite of all his good intentions Napoleon felt an overwhelming urge to lap at Illya’s skin with his tongue. Only by closing his eyes and taking a deep breath did he manage to keep the burning inside him at bay. He paused, his hand shaking to get a grip on himself. Once he was certain that Illya could support himself without falling over, he ran the sponge over those delectable globes, trying not to think about the tight buns, then squatted to let the sponge glide down first one thigh to a lower leg, admiring the lean muscle, downward to a raised foot, then the other and back up again, doing his best to concentrate on getting Illya clean and not on the other. Illya’s head was hanging downward and from Napoleon’s position it looked as if he was beginning to nod off.

Placing a hand against Illya’s hip to balance himself he softly requested, “Turn for me.” A soft shove to the side and he found himself being slapped in the face by an amazingly firm erection.

“Sorry.”

Napoleon looked up to see Illya staring down with surprise tinged with embarrassment at his swollen organ.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen. To be perfectly honest I didn’t think I could … after …” Illya’s voice held a tinge of puzzlement.

Dropping the sponge, Napoleon rose smoothly to his feet, one hand gliding gently up the inside of Illya’s thigh pausing only to cup the full testicles, his eyes never once leaving Illya’s as they followed his ascent. He heard a gasp of surprise escape Illya’s lips. A madness of sorts stole over him as he looked deeply into Illya’s intensely blue eyes. Napoleon let his eyes drift shut as he moved his head closer. The moment their lips touched it was electric. A sigh of contentment escaped Illya’s lips and Napoleon wrapped one arm around the slender body, his hand glided upward to stroke the shaft that like its owner was slender … then his reality shifted. Suddenly he wasn’t Napoleon Solo any longer. He was younger, making out with his best friend in the school shower. A nameless, faceless best friend and he was stroking, getting that friend off.

“Un … un … un … ummm”

The present sprang back to life with those sounds and the fluid that poured forth over Napoleon’s hand. Illya sagged beneath his hands and he didn’t have time to be shocked. For some reason jerking Illya off had felt … right. Shaking his head he somehow managed to get them both dry and into the bedroom. Leaving Illya lying across his bed, Napoleon poked through the dresser drawer to find pajamas. When he tried to dress his recumbent partner he got the shock of his life when Illya, half asleep, pushed them away. Deciding it wasn’t worth fighting over Napoleon felt a weariness sweep over him and he slipped onto the bed joining his partner. Tomorrow would be soon enough to sort everything out.

***

Fingers plucking at his chest hair brought Napoleon to wakefulness. A bare leg rested atop his.

“I never thought to wake up to someone with so much body hair.” 

Fingers tweaked one of his nipples. The heaviness of a flat hand pushing off his chest and the bed tilting caused Napoleon to open his eyes, giving him a view of the Illya’s bare back leaving the room. That shocked him back to reality. He lay back and considered not only his actions but those of his partner. What was wrong with him? This was his partner, the man he’d work with for years. Was Illya deliberately trying to be provocative as he walked to the bathroom door? Nah! He stretched not having felt so whole in a long time. 

Having stopped and paused to lean against the door jam, Illya spoke with studied casualness. “I take it back. Most European women are extremely hairy. Especially those in Rome.”

Napoleon abruptly sat up, his mouth open in shock. “You know that how? I want to know when and where?” The only answer he got at the moment was the sound of piss hitting the toilet bowl.

“I don’t kiss and tell.” Illya was back, pulling boxers out of a drawer, drawing them on, seeming completely at ease with his state of nudity. The he grabbed a black turtleneck from another drawer and slipped it over his head. Napoleon licked his lips and tried to get his mind off of his partner’s boxer clad buns.

“Why did you kiss me?”

The puzzlement in the question caused Napoleon to look up. Illya’s attention seemed focused on deciding which pair of slacks in his closet he should wear.

“Um … er …” Napoleon didn’t know how to respond. “It seemed like a good idea at the time?”

In truth he wasn’t sure what had caused him to do it. He only knew that he liked it and wanted to do it again. Illya rolled his eyes and shook his head as he pulled up the slacks he’d picked out. In no other way did he express how he felt about what had occurred. Illya came and sat on one side of the bed, snapping his socks before putting them on while Napoleon lay there waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I want to thank you. That was truly the first decent sleep I’ve gotten since …”

“Ah … glad I could lend a hand,” Napoleon muttered.

Illya flashed a grin at his double outré, finished tying his shoelaces, and got up off the bed. Napoleon pulled the sheet up further over his chest as he watched Illya gathered up his clothes from the bathroom floor. 

“You can do me another favor,” Illya requested as he returned and threw them at him. “Feed me.”

That was when Napoleon knew that everything would be okay. He got out of the bed and put his clothing back on. “I’ve seen your cupboards. They’re bare. If you want, I’ll spring for breakfast at the restaurant of your choice.”

***

“So what’s it like being gay?” Illya asked around a mouth full of food.

Napoleon took his time swallowing, deliberating on how to respond. Finally ... “I wouldn’t know. It’s still kind of new.” Even after what had happened the night before, he was having an identity crisis; it wasn’t making it any easier integrating his two separate lives.

“Well, I hope I don’t have to put up with your chasing after men the way I did when you chased after women.”

“Christ, Illya, can you keep your voice down.” Napoleon looked around the diner, instinctively afraid of being overheard. When his gaze returned to Illya’s, he couldn’t help notice that the blue eyes were full of mirth. The little prick was having fun at his expense. Illya wasn’t even his type. Napoleon needed someone who would take … the lead. He frowned at the thought.

“Something wrong?”

Napoleon looked up at the question and answered with a brusque, “No.” He did his best to brush his thoughts away, but they were more than that. Feelings out of nowhere kept intruding. He was the same Napoleon Solo that he’d been since Korea, and then out of left field a younger him would emerge, throwing him off balance. He wondered just how much experience his past contained and could he control it.

“I dread the deep and soul searching discussion that the psychology department will insist upon.” Illya griped with a sigh and threw down his fork.

Napoleon’s mind came back from his thoughts. Here he was selfishly thinking about himself when he should be doing something for Illya. He was fortunate that he hadn’t had to talk to someone, not that he could tell them anything. “You could always lie.”

“Ha ha. Could you? And get away with it?”

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow. “Oh I think I could get away with it.”

Illya laughed but there wasn’t much amusement in it. “I guess you could at that.”

Napoleon placed a hand over Illya’s. A glimmer of an idea filtered through his brain. He’d been lucky that he hadn’t had to be evaluated. Waverly still didn’t want anyone in U.N.C.L.E. to know that his chief enforcement agent had a problem. “I’ll think of something. I am not going to let you down again.”

***

“Doctor, your next appointment is here.”

The voice over the intercom interrupted Dr. Sidney Freeman as he reviewed the file for his next patient. Once again he wondered why he had agreed to take this case. The dossier he’d been provided was skimpy. His new patient was Russian born and currently worked for a multi-national organization in a capacity that if he didn’t know better meant the guy was a glorified … spy. True, the circumstances that forced him to seek Sidney’s help were unique, but didn’t that organization have inside staff for this sort of shit? Taking off his reading glasses, he hit the button to respond, “Send him in.”

He looked up as his receptionist ushered his new patient in. His first impression was the man wasn’t very big, his head covered with a mop of blond hair worn a bit longer than most men’s. On top of that he was politely thanking the receptionist in a softly accented voice for showing him in. Sidney wasn’t sure what he expected but this wasn’t it. The few spies he’d met, not that he met many, had all been big, blustery fellows. 

Sidney’s attention was momentarily distracted by the man who entered the room behind his patient. Now this man looked the part. Like that spy in the movies, he looked suave and dashing. Sidney blinked. It couldn’t be! But there was no mistaking the cleft chin and those brown eyes, not to mention the curl of hair that dangled down over the forehead. He rose from behind his desk. “Napoleon Solo! As I live and breathe. It is you, you old dog. What brings you here?”

“Hi, Sydney.” Napoleon smiled warmly and glanced at the man at his side. “I guess you could say I’m here for … moral support. This is my partner, Illya Kuryakin.”

“Partner?” Sidney raised an eyebrow. 

“Work associate,” Illya quickly clarified.

“Pity,” murmured Sidney under his breath. In all the years since Korea, he’d oftentimes wondered if perhaps they had done a disservice to Napoleon. 

Moving back around to his desk he couldn’t help but notice that Napoleon had filled out a bit since Korea. He looked well, his style of dress an indication of how far he’d come from those days spent at the 4077. He was no longer a boy, but a man with an air of confidence that surrounded him like a cloak. He couldn’t help but notice the way Napoleon’s gaze kept returning to his partner and wondered if he knew just how much his expression gave away. 

Suddenly Napoleon turned his look on him and winked, his gaze one of understanding. It was with difficulty that Sidney turned his attention back to the other man. His patient. Illya Kuryakin. “Won’t you have a seat?” Sidney suggested gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk.

Kuryakin reluctantly took one of the seats. To Sidney’s trained eye it was evident the man was nervous and trying not to show it. 

Napoleon opted to stand by the door. “What kind of self-respecting psychiatrist are you,” Napoleon admonished. “with no couch?”

Sidney shrugged, taking it that this was Napoleon’s way of trying to lighten the mood. “My patients had an unfortunate tendency to fall asleep.” Sternly he looked at Napoleon. “Usually in a case like this I speak with the patient alone.”

“No.” Kuryakin’s head turned slightly as if seeking out his partner. “Please. I would like him to stay.”

Sidney let it ride. After all some of his sessions did involve more than one patient. He turned his attention back to the man sitting in front of him. “Do you want to talk about your reason for being here?” he asked.

“No,” Kuryakin’s response was coldly blunt. Sidney had to give him credit, at least he was honest. “I would think the folder you have in front of you explained all that.”

“Illya,…” Napoleon chided softly.

A sigh of exasperation escaped the blond and he slumped slightly, evidently used to taking orders from the other. 

“I am here at the bequest of U.N.C.L.E. to bare my soul and make sure I’m capable of continuing to function as an agent.” 

“How does this make you feel?”

“How should I feel? It happened. There is nothing I can do to change that. I’m fine,” Illya said firmly, he tilted his head back to look at Napoleon. “Aren’t I?”

Napoleon winked. “You betcha.”

Sidney couldn’t take it. Slamming his hand on top of the folder, he raised his voice, causing both men to look at him in surprise. “Just what kind of fairy story do you live in?” He pointed at Illya. “You were brutalized. No one in their right mind could be ‘okay’.”

“Ah. Sidney?” Napoleon was a little shocked at the man’s bluntness.

“I’m not going to ask if you responded. There are certain reactions that are inevitable. Tell me just what would you do if someone, say, tried to get intimate with you? Another man, for instance?” 

Illya’s face turned red and he looked a little guilty. 

It went against his grain, but Sidney ventured an opinion. He’d never been the usual sort of shrink. “Look. No matter what your sexual orientation the fact remains that you were sexually assaulted. You are not the first one to have this happen to them, and I hate to say it but you will probably not be the last. The most important thing is to remember that you didn’t deserve it.”

The chair Illya was sitting in had a high back; he had to lean over the side to look back at his partner, one eyebrow cocked questioningly.

“Umm, Sidney. Illya’s straight.”

“I never said he wasn’t.” Even as he said it Sidney adjusted his glasses and took a closer look at Illya. The man staring back at him rather defiantly had a square jaw that was jutted out at the moment. Sidney realized he had indeed been making an assumption and worried that the assumption about Solo that he’d made all those years ago might have been in error too.

Napoleon looked down at the toe of his shoe. “Look, Sidney. I don’t know what kind of man I would have turned into if you and Hawkeye and the rest hadn’t interfered.” He chewed on his lower lip, then looked up. “But I doubt I would have led the life I have and that’s not all bad.” He smiled. “It’s strange. Sometimes I feel like a newborn, not sure of what to do or how. It does explain though why I never seemed to find what, or should I say who, I was looking for romance wise.”

“How did you find out…?”

“It’s a long story.”

Illya cleared his throat. He turned his head to the side to address Napoleon. “Pardon me for interrupting but I thought this session was for me.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Sidney said, his hands resting atop the folder. “Do you still feel ‘fine’? What would you do if you ever saw those men again?”

Illya was silent for so long that both Sidney and, judging by his expression, Napoleon began to worry.

“I would like to take each of them apart piece by tiny piece.”

“Good.” Sidney opened the folder and began writing in it.

“Good?” The question came in stereo.

Sidney looked up from his writing; he took off his glasses. “Yes. Good. It shows anger. That’s a natural response to what happened to you. If you had said anything else I would have been concerned. Now answer me this … do you plan to act on your feelings?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yet another good answer. You do realize that it is natural to feel despondent, lost, and alone. It’s when you let these feeling control you that you get in trouble.”

“Don’t worry, I very much doubt Napoleon will let me alone long enough,” Illya said dryly.

Sidney looked up to see a proud grin on Napoleon’s face as he looked fondly down at the back of his partner. There was more to them then they let on. Sidney looked down at the paper in front of him and signed his signature with a flourish. Getting up he extended his hand to Illya. “Congratulations. You’re officially sane.” Extending his pen, he pointed at Napoleon. “You I want to see back in my office before the week is out.”

“But … but …”

“Come on, Napoleon. Thank the nice doctor and let’s go.”

“But … but …”

Sidney couldn’t help smiling as Illya gathered the protesting Napoleon and urged him out of the office. 

***

Napoleon frowned as they exited the building. “Damn, that didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped.  
You’re sane and I have to go back? What kind of justice is that?”

“Don’t worry, Napoleon. I’ll back you up. Besides I’m certain that once the real Napoleon shows up, you’ll be pronounced sane as well.” Illya grinned; and knowing full well what he was doing, he threw an arm around his partner.


End file.
